


Night Train

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John keeps watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Train

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #15: Almost halfway there! Miles to go before we sleep! - Use however this inspires you.
> 
>   
>  **Warnings** : Almost no plot whatsoever. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
>   
>   
> 

 

 

The train car swayed, creaking as it sped over the tracks.

Sherlock didn't move. He remained upright, chin tilted down towards his chest, eyelids closed. The dimmed car lighting couldn't hide the deep shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. Despite appearances, John knew that he wasn't deeply asleep. The wrong noise, a change in atmosphere or lighting, and Sherlock would snap awake, ready and alert for anything. But for now, in the quiet, after the case, he allowed himself to doze. Once back at Baker Street, he'd sleep the sleep of the dead for at least a day, if not two.

John kept watch. He was nearly as exhausted as Sherlock; it had been a whirlwind seventy-two hours with no sleep and vast amounts of running about. But he'd managed to eat a bit, here and there, more than Sherlock had (or would). Besides, between medical school and the Army, he'd long since learned the knack of staying alert on marathon shifts. This was no different. And neither the soldier nor the doctor would truly relax under these conditions. He'd stay awake because Sherlock needed the rest more than he himself did, because it was always better if one of them remained on guard.

A tiny station flashed by in a blur of industrial lights and enormous lettering. John noted the name almost automatically, compared it to the map he kept in his head.

Halfway home.

Hours and klicks to go before he could allow himself to sleep.

Sometimes when he was tired like this he'd hear voices. Aural hallucinations brought on by an exhausted brain's need for stimulation, dreaming, sleep; take your pick, or figure it was a combination of all of these. He was never fooled into thinking those voices were real, any more than the gritty blurriness of the corners of his vision kept him from seeing what needed to be seen, on watches like this. He rarely ever heard an actual word, just half-imagined cadences of conversations. When he did start hearing words, he knew it was time to stop, catch ten or twenty minutes' worth of shut-eye, because he was about to get dangerously sloppy-sleepy.

There were no voices tonight, no sound other than the mechanical creaks and groans and the endless clacking of the rails, marching out the distance yet to travel.

John waited, and watched, as the night streamed by and Sherlock drowsed.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 15, 2013


End file.
